


Marked

by CharleyFoxtrot



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Biting, Bloodplay, Bruising, M/M, Marking, Marking/Branding/Ownership, Possessiveness, Very minor D/s dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-15
Updated: 2012-05-15
Packaged: 2017-11-05 09:57:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/405138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharleyFoxtrot/pseuds/CharleyFoxtrot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was bizarre and totally out of character for him, this wanting to be...<i>claimed</i>, like some sort of ridiculous medieval bride. Spoils of war, more like.</p><p>In which Sherlock discovers a penchant for being <i>marked</i>, and John discovers that he's actually rather possessive about his toys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marked

**Author's Note:**

> It seems all of my favorite fics are inspired by dreams; woke up with this one in my head. God, this is a kink I didn't even know I _had_. *bites lip*
> 
> As usual, this is self-edited. I have neither a beta-reader nor a Brit-picker. All mistakes and Americanisms are my own fault; if you spot one, please let me know in the comments so I can fix it. Also as usual, you can find me at my tumblr, disease-danger-darkness-silence.tumblr.com.
> 
> \-------------------
> 
> Potential squicks are all marked in the tags, but just in case: very minor D/s dynamics, bloodplay, scratching/biting/marking/branding, wanting to be _owned_.
> 
> \-------------------
> 
>  **Edit:** A friend was confused when I mentioned the calligraphy set. What I mean is NOT the fountain-style calligraphy pens, but a legitimate dip pen set that has a nib like a quill. You have to dip it into a pot of ink for to to work, like [these](http://www.fountainpennetwork.com/forum/uploads/monthly_04_2010/post-32980-127076211744.jpg). I actually have a set of these, and after writing this I tested out my theory. They scratch skin quite nicely. :D Although naturally if I were going to use them for that, I'd sterilize first. Bad Doctor Watson!

The first time it surprised him. In retrospect, because he's so  _rarely_ surprised by things...well, that's probably why the idea took hold so strongly.

It was a little thing, just a bite mark left on his chest. His reaction to it startled him: Sherlock Holmes wasn't the type to enjoy the idea of being _hurt_. His admittedly brief affair with Irene Adler had proven that much.

And yet, somehow, there it was: a near-perfect outline of John Watson's teeth just above his right nipple. It was red and deep, very nearly bloody but not quite. 

He hadn't noticed it while it was happening. Their coupling had been quick and rough, frantic, the two of them riding out the effects of the drug Frankland had inadvertently pumped into them at Dewer's Hollow. Afterward, they'd both been too stunned to worry about things like dental imprints in sensitive epidermis.

It didn't take long for _Sherlock_ to notice, naturally; as John turned away from him and began getting dressed, his movements jerky and unhappy, Sherlock _immediately_ began noticing things. It was, after all, what he _did_. Almost directly after re-engaging his intellect, he noticed the bite mark. Irrationally, it _pleased_ him; it was proof that this had happened, that it was real.

He quickly became lost in introspection on that point, and it took him several seconds to realize that John had noticed the bite mark as well. Immediately switching from his stance as annoyed flatmate into the Good Doctor persona he so often adopted, John sat next to him, reaching out to touch the bite.

“Sorry, just – is it bleeding?”

“No, it's fine,” Sherlock said, absentmindedly brushing his hand away. He was still trying to figure out why he _enjoyed_ the idea of John biting him hard enough to leave a mark. While Sherlock didn't particularly care about things like injuries and wounds and scarring, he also wasn't particularly a glutton for punishment. Plainly put, Sherlock Holmes didn't _enjoy_ pain.

Not until now, anyway.

“Still, I ought to clean it off. Bite marks aren't exactly the cleanest –“ and John flushed brilliantly red, standing up and going for his first aid kit. 

As John turned back toward his patient, clad in only his underpants and a half-buttoned shirt, Sherlock realized that he liked the idea of John leaving a mark on him because of the possessive nature of it. A mark left during coitus had all the primal connotations of ownership, and Sherlock wanted to be _possessed_. By John Watson, specifically.

It was bizarre and totally out of character for him, this wanting to be... _claimed_ , like some sort of ridiculous medieval bride. _Spoils of war, more like,_ he thought to himself with a snort. Either way, he realized – as John cleaned off the wound carefully and spread a layer of ointment over it – he _wanted_ John to claim him. He wanted to _belong_ to him. Like he was some sort of inanimate possession to be used.

There had to be some sort of intriguing psychological reason for this reaction, he thought, but for the life of him he couldn't pin it down. The idea of there being a mark on his skin, one that no one could see but that he and John were both _tremendously_ aware of, was far more arousing than it had any right to be.

“There,” John said, capping off the tube of ointment. “Try to keep it clean or it'll get infected, but it shouldn't scar.”

“Hmmm,” Sherlock said, inspecting John's handiwork. “Too bad,” he murmured. He swung his legs off the bed and reached for his clothes.

The look John shot him was confused, but Sherlock didn't bother explaining. He didn't know that it would help, and he was almost certain that John wouldn't understand.

 

**\+ + + + +**

 

The second time was almost a solid week after their return from Dartmoor. Neither of them had brought it up, and they danced around it even within the privacy of their own flat. 

After two days of this Sherlock took on a case that should have been simple. He'd needed something, _anything_ , to get the two of them out of the house, because if he didn't one of them was likely to snap and strangle the other.

The surprising thing is that he wasn't sure which of them would do it. They were both frustrated with each other – sexually and emotionally, although Sherlock probably wouldn't have said it in those terms, as well as the usual frustration that came with being in close quarters for extended periods of time. On top of it, Sherlock was obsessing over the wound on his chest (now mostly-healed) and John was most likely suffering a sexual identity crisis. 

It was an explosion waiting to happen, honestly.

The “simple” case turned out to be not-so-simple and Sherlock was _delighted_ , up until the moment the bootlegger had the unmitigated _gall_ to aim a gun at John. 

With a snarl, Sherlock launched himself at the man, using every ounce of martial arts he'd ever learned to knock the gun out of his hand and render him unconscious and bloody, although not before the man had let loose with at least one round. He could see it in his mind's eye, embedded in a brick wall behind them; could still hear it, the sound reverberating through his skull.

_“Sherlock!”_

Off to his side he could just barely hear John frantically calling his name, feel him tugging at his coat. He looked down; the man was unconscious and there was a telltale flicker of police-light at the end of the alley. 

He blinked and released his victim, dragging a breath in through his open mouth raggedly before standing and flicking imaginary dust from his lapels. Dismissing the man from his mind, he began striding down toward where Lestrade was calling an ambulance and, no doubt, waiting for an explanation.

Because he was a civilian defending himself, ostensibly, the paperwork snarl was minimal and he and John were back at Baker Street within the hour. They'd only just shut the door behind them when John launched himself at Sherlock.

For a brief second Sherlock thought his friend was actually _attacking_ him, but then he was laying prone on the couch with a frantic John on top of him, kissing him, undressing him.

No, this was _far_ more acceptable. 

It was, much like their first time, rough and exciting; this time Sherlock was on his knees in front of John, begging him in strident tones to hurry up and _fuck him_. It felt the same and different, the changed angle allowing for an altogether different sort of stimulation. Although Sherlock did miss categorizing and observing the way John's face moved mid-coitus, he was able to catalog the amazing things that John did with his fingers, not the least of which was grabbing roughly at Sherlock's hips and pounding into him when Sherlock begged him to go _harder, faster_.

This time, however, they didn't have a ready-made excuse like psychotropic drugs and afterward things were unbearably awkward as they began to get dressed. That is, until Sherlock noticed finger-shaped bruises forming along his hips. This sufficiently distracted him from any awkwardness, and he curled around at an impossible angle to see as much of the bruises as was humanly possible.

God, it was _beautiful_ ; John's hands had barely moved once he'd begun gripping Sherlock, and each bruise was a near-perfect replica of his finger. Sherlock had pale skin (it never saw the sun, so there was no reason for melanin to have accumulated), and the bruises showed up perfectly purpled and livid. It was like a living memory; it would sit beneath his trousers, reminding him of _exactly_ where John's hands had been tonight.

A slight gasp escaped his mouth as he inspected his injuries, reveling in them, and it drew John's attention.

“Oh, jeez,” John said, running his hand down his face. He'd managed to finish getting dressed this time, but still he sat down to inspect the damage, his fingertips sending goosebumps up Sherlock's torso. “ _Jesus_ , Sherlock.”

“No matter,” Sherlock said, straightening suddenly and pushing John's hand away. He didn't know if John had some sort of salve that made bruises go away faster, but if he did, Sherlock _didn't want it_. “They don't hurt.”

It was a lie, but he didn't know if telling John that he liked the way they hurt would concern him or not. Sherlock had very suddenly decided that making John concerned or unhappy was something that he didn't want any part of. Not as far as sex was concerned, anyway.

John peered at the bruises and then up at him, suspiciously, but he let Sherlock have his secrets.

 

**\+ + + + +**

 

John was a doctor. This was a profession that didn't exactly _preclude_ stupidity, but it made it less likely, in Sherlock's opinion. So he was singularly unsurprised when John finally figured him out, three days later.

It was another case, this one for Lestrade. A cleric for the Church of England had snapped and begun killing gay men, which led Sherlock and John to a particular gay bar on a Friday night, trying to spot him.

It wasn't the first gay bar the two of them had been to for a case, and it likely wouldn't be the last – bars in general tend to attract the sort of clientele that commit crimes. This, however, was their first trip to a gay bar since the two of them had started having sex, though they hadn't discussed their relationship for even a second.

To say that John was tense was an understatement. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the other man as they entered the establishment, a gesture that John missed entirely.

“Short, fat, balding,” Sherlock muttered, his mouth exceedingly close to John's ear. “He probably doesn't wear the collar here (it'd be a dead giveaway) but from his gait he has an injury of some sort to his right foot or ankle. Keep an eye out for that.” He gestured for John to circle the bar opposite him.

John nodded, still tense but loosening up as Sherlock gave him directions. The two men separated, eyes open and observing.

Just as Sherlock spotted their suspect about ten minutes later, his path was intersected by a man slightly taller than Sherlock himself, and rather broader in the shoulders. If Sherlock liked tall men – or really, anyone other than John Watson – he supposed this man would be attractive. As it stood, he was merely annoying him at this point.

The other man let his eyes rake down Sherlock's body and for a _very_ brief second, Sherlock was flattered at the attention.

Ah. Perhaps _that_ was why he'd not wanted Irene in the long run.

Then he frowned and unleashed a full-scale Sherlockian glare at the man. “Pardon me,” he said, aiming for cold courtesy.

“Oy, come on, I just wanna talk,” the man said, grabbing Sherlock's upper arm and swinging him around aggressively. His grip was tight and beginning to cut off circulation to Sherlock's dominant hand.

Sherlock let his eyes travel from the man's boots to the very top of his head, assessing him for weak points. Then he looked at him directly in the eyes. “I'm fairly certain that the law requires me to say this, but I am giving you a warning nonetheless: _get your hands off of me_.”

The man smirked. “What's a posh thing like you gonna do about it, mate? You got a protective boyfriend to cover your pretty ass?”

“Ah, _now_ you're getting it,” said an angry voice from behind the man. Sherlock smirked as his would-be attacker turned, and almost immediately the side of his face was crushed against John's fist. 

The other man let out a howl of indignation and pain, drawing the attention of several other men in the bar. And, unfortunately, their cleric, who spotted them and bolted.

“Damn,” John swore, and he and Sherlock took off after him without a second thought. 

It was only after they'd apprehended him (some twenty minutes later) and turned him over to Lestrade that Sherlock realized the implications of what had just happened.

He stopped directly in the middle of the pavement as the realization crashed into him, leading John to do the exact same thing, nearly plowing the two of them over.

“Hey, give a man a warning,” John protested, backing up and glaring at Sherlock.

“Sorry,” Sherlock said, shortly, continuing on his way as he pondered the implications of John calling himself, in a rather roundabout manner, Sherlock's boyfriend in the middle of a _gay bar_. And defending his honor, as it were.

Once again, the very idea of John being possessive of him, like he was some sort of favored toy or plaything – _God_ , it was arousing. It ought to be repellant, but it _wasn't_. Sherlock wanted to be _owned_ by John Watson, completely possessed. He wanted him to leave marks on his skin, branding him his. The phrasing of his internal commentary sent a shudder down his spine – oh God. _Branding_. His mind's eye briefly treated him to a vision of John inking his name – JOHN H. WATSON – across Sherlock's spine with a tattoo gun of some sort, and he shivered again.

“Are you okay?” John asked, frowning as he came up next to Sherlock. “It's not cold, you shouldn't be shivering.” He held his hand up to Sherlock's forehead. “You don't have a fever or anything, do you?”

“No, I'm fine,” Sherlock said, noticing immediately that his voice was a half-pitch higher than usual. He cleared his throat. “That is, I _will_ be. Fine.” He lengthened his strides purposefully, knowing John would have trouble keeping up.

It took them only a few minutes to get back to Baker Street, but a few minutes was plenty of time for Sherlock's very fine brain to throw him several more provocative images: John with his riding crop, John with a white-hot needle, John with a paddle of some sort. By the time they reached their front door he'd had to very surreptitiously, through his coat pockets, adjust himself so as not to make his erection visibly evident to the general populace of London.

Sherlock had every intention of locking himself up in his bedroom – alone – for the night and imagining every single scenario he'd had to cut off on the way home. As soon as they closed the flat door behind them, Sherlock shucked his coat and tossed it over a chair, turning to head toward his room. His movements were quick and decisive, which may have been the final clue for poor John.

John, who was blocking his path, arms crossed and eyebrow raised.

“If it were _anyone_ else,” he said, smirking at Sherlock's deer-in-headlights look, “I would think it was the way I implied I was in a relationship with you. But no, no, this is _you_ , Sherlock.” He let his arms fall and his eyes closed to a squint, inspecting Sherlock. _Observing_ him.

God, it was _hot_.

“It'd _never_ be that simple for you,” John continued as he drew closer to his friend. John was a doctor, so he would naturally be well-versed in the chemical reactions of arousal, and the way in which they played out in a human body. Sherlock could almost hear him taking it in: the beat of Sherlock's pulse against the skin of his neck, the dilated pupils, the quickened breathing. And of course, his very visible erection, now that he'd removed his coat. John licked his lips almost unconsciously; Sherlock stifled a groan.

“No, you're Sherlock Holmes,” John said. He was now standing directly next to Sherlock, who despite all evidence to the contrary actually _did_ understand the concept of personal space. John was right in the middle of his and it was alarming and arousing. “You have to be special and different from everyone else.”

Sherlock huffed to himself, which seemed to amuse John even more.

“That's it, though,” John said. “The possession. Ownership, so to speak. You _like_ it.”

Unbidden, a slight groan escaped his lips. He winced at his own lack of control; John quirked his mouth and circled around behind him, slowly. Sherlock stood facing toward his room as John inspected him from all angles. By the time he'd come around to Sherlock's other side, John was outright smirking.

“Who knew Sherlock Holmes would want something so...human?” John mused to himself. “Did Irene affect you _that_ much?”

“ _No_ ,” Sherlock said. He closed his eyes briefly; best to put all of his cards on the table. “Just you, John.”

This seemed to please the other man; his smirk took on a devilish undertone and his eyes narrowed. He licked his lips again; this time it was far, _far_ more sensual.

“Right, then,” John said, regarding Sherlock hazily. “Bedroom. _Now_.”

The haste with which Sherlock moved to obey him made him laugh; Sherlock found that he didn't mind.

 

**\+ + + + +**

 

John didn't follow him directly into Sherlock's bedroom; in fact, it took him several minutes to enter and Sherlock spent those minutes wondering if John had actually decided that he was too straight for this sort of thing.

When his friend finally walked in with a box in his hand, Sherlock was unaccountably relieved. He was so annoyed with himself for falling prey to sentiment that for one brief moment, he considered punching himself in the face.

Strangely, the punishment aspect of it managed to tamp down a bit on his desire. Enough to think straight, anyway. He caught sight of John's arse in his jeans and revised his previous thought: enough to think in a sort of parabolic arc.

“Sorry about that,” John was saying, nudging Sherlock's door closed with his foot. “Considering I have almost no possessions, it took a ridiculous amount of time to find this.” He grinned down at Sherlock.

Sherlock had seen several iterations of John's smile over the last year and a half: there was the general kind-John smile, the one he used for patients and police alike; the “Sherlock complimented me” smile; the “Sherlock is going to do something amazing” smile; the “I actually know something Sherlock doesn't know” smile; even the “bemused eye-fuck” smile.

But _this_ smile. This smile was _different_. It was confident, sexual, and just slightly predatory. It was totally and completely _new_.

In his trousers, Sherlock's cock twitched in anticipation.

“I take it you've sorted out your sexual identity crisis,” Sherlock commented, not moving from his position sprawled out on his bed.

John swept his gaze over Sherlock's body in a way that sent goosebumps down his spine. “ _Oh_ yeah,” John agreed. Sherlock swallowed, hard.

John offered the box; it was more of a _case_ , actually, a wooden case covered in leather. It was rather nice and, as he sat up to accept it, Sherlock wondered what he'd find in there.

Glancing up at John for permission, he undid the clasp and opened it.

“A friend of my mum's gave it to me when I got my credentials as a doctor,” John commented. “Of course, a fountain pen might have been more _practical_ , but I think it'll benefit us well enough.”

Sherlock let his finger drag across the calligraphy set. It was a really nice set with a choice of three different handles and ten different quill-style nibs, along with several tiny pots of ink.

John took the set out of Sherlock's hands and selected one of the nibs – the thinnest one. It wasn't quite scalpel-sharp, but it would definitely leave a mark on Sherlock's skin.

He shivered in anticipation.

Then John pressed something else into his hand: a permanent marker. Sherlock stared at in total incomprehension for about two seconds before he realized what John intended to do.

It wasn't as good as, say, a tattoo, but the marker (dug into his scratch marks) would make it last longer. John would still be able to clean them off and let them heal, but Sherlock would be able to see them for _days_.

He bit his lip. “Absolutely,” he said, answering the unspoken question. John grinned wickedly. He took the marker and set it – and the calligraphy set – down on Sherlock's nightstand.

The general tone of this encounter was completely different from their two previous ones. For one, both of them had verbally consented to it, something that for some reason felt insanely important to Sherlock.

But the biggest difference was the one that turned him on the most; John was laying him back in bed, kissing him gently. Running his hands over Sherlock's body like he was something precious: a favored toy, perhaps, or a one-of-a-kind novel. 

Slowly, John deepened the kiss, simultaneously beginning to unloop the buttons on Sherlock's shirt. As the fabric began to puddle beneath Sherlock's form, John leaned down and nipped at Sherlock's chest, right over where he'd had bit almost two weeks previous.

Sherlock surprised himself by hissing in arousal. It wasn't unduly loud, just a quick inhalation through teeth, but it made John smile as he flicked his tongue out to taste Sherlock's nipple.

He worked his way down, unbuttoning Sherlock's trousers with the same careful deliberation that he'd dealt with his shirt. Eventually, Sherlock was completely naked and John was still clothed, which Sherlock pointed out was _spectacularly_ unfair.

“Hmm, a bit,” was John's reply. He pulled his shirt off, but didn't mess with his trousers just yet, instead electing to reach for the calligraphy pen. Sherlock shivered in anticipation.

John sat back, the end of the pen handle in his mouth as he contemplated Sherlock's body. His eyes were half-closed; Sherlock glanced down and took note of John's trousers. Specifically, the way the front pulled away from his body, betraying an erection to match Sherlock's own. He smirked.

A slight lean toward him was the only warning Sherlock had; John's left hand darted out and began scratching the pen against Sherlock's hip. He hissed, straining upward and biting his lip against the pain-pleasure. 

It was unbearable. He could _feel_ it – John scratching out, in neat cursive writing, “MINE.” As the older man finished the word with a flourish, he leaned down and licked a slow, tantalizing stripe up Sherlock's cock.

The sound Sherlock made as he battled the dual sensations of pain and pleasure wasn't anything that could be transcribed in any existing alphanumeric code, although Sherlock would attempt to later. He tried desperately to restrict his movements; the decision was taken away from him as John pressed his hips down firmly, hand digging into the wound he'd just created.

_Yes_. Sherlock's nerves sang, a tremor running up and down his spine as he hissed his pleasure. “Again,” he begged. John squeezed his left hand as he engulfed the tip of Sherlock's cock in his mouth, sending another glorious mix of red-hot pain and overwhelming pleasure through his nerve centers.

John gave him his entire attention for several minutes, drawing exquisite noises from his lover's mouth, before pulling off and regarding his canvas again. “What should I do next, you think?” he murmured, pulling Sherlock's thighs apart. He let his hand drift across the inside of Sherlock's left thigh, sending a shudder of ecstasy through Sherlock and directly toward his cock, which twitched.

For once, Sherlock had no suggestions. While John contemplated it, he stripped off his trousers and pants, and Sherlock took the opportunity to sit up, move forward, and take John into his mouth.

“Christ,” John said, explosively, his hands going to Sherlock's shoulders in an effort to keep himself from keeling over. A moment's inattention drove the teensiest bit of the calligraphy nib's tip into his shoulder, and Sherlock breathed in harshly through his nose and moaned. 

It apparently gave John an idea, and while his concentration wavered, he managed to lean forward and begin tracing letters onto Sherlock's right shoulder blade. He chose a Copperplate font this time, capital and bolded all across, digging so deep into the skin that Sherlock thought he may have _actually_ bloodied him.

The thought drove him mad and he moaned again, sucking gently as he ran his tongue against the underside of the glans. It made John pause shakily, but he continued. When he was finished, he leaned back, satisfied, and closed his eyes.

Sherlock was very tempted to finish him off right there in exchange for the message indelibly carved into his skin – PROPERTY OF JOHN WATSON, and _god yes_ , he could feel it dripping blood down his back – but he desperately wanted John to fuck him.

He let John's cock fall from his lips, giving the head a slight kiss before looking up into his lovers' eyes. It was a coy look, he knew, but it worked exactly as he'd hoped: John let out a small growl, pushing him back toward the bed (and smearing his blood against the sheet; the cleaners were going to talk, no doubt) all the while hauling Sherlock's legs over his shoulders.

They were close enough to the nightstand that Sherlock only had to fumble for a second with his left hand before passing John a tube of proper, brand-new lubricant; in the past they'd made do with Vaseline or mineral oil, but Sherlock had been fully aware of how unsanitary that actually was. No doubt John was too; he was, after all, a doctor.

John grinned at him and licked his lips, for all the world like he was about to eat a fabulous meal rather than have sex with his new boyfriend. Sherlock found he enjoyed the comparison in his mind.

The calligraphy pen had fallen off the side of the bed by now, but that didn't stop John from using his nails, scratching light marks down the inside of Sherlock's thigh while he prepared him for sex. Sherlock twitched, agony/ecstasy warring in his mind and making him lose any sense of control over his motor functions.

There wasn't much of a warning, but then again, he didn't really need one. Very suddenly John had Sherlock's legs hitched up again and had the tip of his cock buried in Sherlock's arse, and Sherlock howled in agreement.

“Yes, yes _yes_ ,” he chanted in time with John's thrusts, feeling the burn in his shoulder and a dull ache in his hip, where John was grabbing him, grasping at the deep scratches he'd left behind. Sherlock's nerves were on _fire_ ; he felt simultaneously hot and cold at the same time.

John leaned down and nibbled at the bite mark again, so very nearly completely healed, and then nudged Sherlock's head to the side, exposing his neck. There, low at the base, where Sherlock could feasibly cover up if he so desired, John bit down. Hard.

Sherlock arched back, panting and squirming. His cock was trapped between their two bodies; every time John thrust it sent a jolt of pleasure simultaneously from both his prostate and his cock straight to every nerve ending in his body. It was beginning to overwhelm him.

John nudged his head over again, fixing his lips to the other side of Sherlock's neck and sucking, hard. John was _giving him a hickey._

_God_. That shouldn't turn him on this much, but it did and –

He tensed, which was all the warning John got before Sherlock was coming, his dick pulsing as he shuddered through his orgasm.

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” John said. He started thrusting shallowly, riding Sherlock through his orgasm, and as Sherlock thought he couldn't possibly take anymore, John stilled and let out a shaking, explosive breath followed by a deep, reverberating moan.

“ _Jesus Christ_ ,” the older man repeated, shaking, his eyes closed as every muscle in his body tensed up. Sherlock was surprised to actively feel the moment of John's release. Presumably he'd been too busy paying attention to his own needs in previous encounters. He bit his lip; it was _unbearably_ erotic.

John was still shaking as he carefully removed himself from Sherlock, collapsing face-first next to him with an explosive exhale.

“Jesus Christ,” he said for a third time, laughing into Sherlock's pillow. “That...was amazing.”

“Hmmm,” Sherlock said with a satisfied smirk. They lay there for several minutes, catching their breath, and Sherlock rolled over on to his stomach despite the mess, sated and sleepy. Next to him he could hear John shifting and then leaving the bed, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

He wasn't entirely sure how long he'd been laying there when he felt a happy, naked John climbing on top of him, sitting on top of Sherlock's arse and successfully pinning him down. “What are you doing?” he asked.

“Cleaning you up,” John responded. He'd brought his first aid kit with him, extracting gauze and rubbing alcohol and using them to wipe away the excess blood on Sherlock's shoulders. “I made a right mess of you.”

“Hmmmm,” Sherlock said. He sounded satisfied even to _himself_ , and his entire body flushed pink. John laughed and lay a gentle kiss on the shoulder blade.

“The marker,” Sherlock said, suddenly, as he heard John uncapping the tube of ointment. “Do the marker first.”

John stilled. “Are you sure? This is pretty deep, Sherlock. I don't know if the ink'll heal out.”

“Do it,” Sherlock said, determined. John let out a shaky breath, and against his arse Sherlock felt a brief twitch from his cock. He grinned into his pillow and then craned his neck around to regard John. “Do it,” he repeated.

Biting his lip, John nodded and grabbed the marker, abandoning the ointment next to Sherlock. The tube rolled over and touched his side, chilly.

Above him, John was tracing the letters with the marker, deep enough to get ink into the wound but not deep enough to hurt badly. Sherlock closed his eyes and followed the tracing silently:

**P R O P E R T Y**

**O F**

**J O H N W A T S O N**

“ _Yes_ ,” he hissed. John wiped the whole mess down with more alcohol, sterilizing it, and then grabbed the ointment tube, spreading a generous layer across the wound.

“I really shouldn't approve of all of this so much,” John commented, as he climbed off of Sherlock and rolled him over to tend to the scratches on his hip. “I'm a doctor, and this is probably horribly unsanitary.”

“Hmmmm,” Sherlock hummed. “But you're a doctor, and you know how to fix me after you've broken me.”

John laughed, spreading the salve over the word – M I N E – and leaning over to kiss _that_ as well. “There is that, I suppose.” Still completely naked, he packed up his kit and retrieved the calligraphy pen from the floor, cleaning it off and putting it away in it's case. “I suppose we could just keep these in here from now on,” he said, smiling delightedly as he stashed the pen set, permanent marker, and lube back inside of Sherlock's nightstand. He glanced at Sherlock, as if asking permission to keep his things in his room.

“Oh _God_ , yes,” Sherlock said.

 

**\+ + + + +**

 

The next day Lestrade called them in to make a report about the incident at the gay bar – the man John had punched, apparently, had decided to try to file charges when he saw a picture of Sherlock in the newspaper and recognized him.

The two of them showed up, showered and cleaned and thoroughly grumpy-looking as they were led into a witness consultation room and sat at a table. Lestrade gave Sherlock a startled look as he handed him the required paperwork, which Sherlock took, twitching mildly as his shoulder twinged.

John caught the movement and smirked as he looked down at his own report. 

“Ah,” Lestrade said. “Sherlock, you might want to put your scarf back on.” He'd backed up away from the table and looked to be edging out of the room. “Just, you know, if you don't want anyone talking.” He looked alarmed and horribly uncomfortable.

Sherlock raised his eyebrow in consternation as he looked at the other man. “Excuse me?”

John glanced up and burst out laughing. He pointed to Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock briefly colored as he remembered the hickey, but he continued to stare at Lestrade stonily. “Why would I care if _people talk_?”

“Right,” Lestrade said, reaching for the doorknob and fumbling with it. “Um, just. You know. Congratulations, I guess?” This was said as the door was closing behind him.

John was still laughing next to him; he leaned his forehead into Sherlock's shoulder, laughing so hard tears were leaking out of the corners of his eyes. “ _Gods_ , Sherlock. Just... _Jesus_.”

Sherlock bit back a smile, but let it play out in full force when John looked up at him. 

“Just a warning, I'm fairly certain he's never going to let us live that down,” Sherlock said, and John burst into hysterical laughter again. When he calmed down, he leaned over and the two exchanged a kiss, smirking.

“Hmm,” Sherlock said, as the two of them turned toward their reports. “We seem to have gathered an audience.”

As if they couldn't notice the gaggle of faces staring at them through the window. _Idiots_.

“I'd gathered we would,” John said, his focus now entirely dedicated to filling out the incident report in front of him. “I suppose that even a load of morons like them would figure it out eventually, huh?”

“They'd have to,” Sherlock agreed. “Especially seeing as I seem to have problems keeping my hands off you. Couldn't be more obvious, really.”

John smirked to himself as he observed out of the corner of his eye. “I think they have the speakers on.”

“Hmmm, I expected as much. I suppose you'd be rather cross with me if I gave them any of the details.”

“Very much so. Sherlock, finish your police report.”

“Yes, _mummy_.”


End file.
